A Turn For the Worse
by 221Bme
Summary: Sherlock does not take kindly to being alone after John moves on with Mary. Drug use and possible self-harm.
1. A turn for the worse

_John Watson's day had taken a definite turn for the worse. _

Ever since he'd received that call from Mycroft, concerning the state of his former flatmate. Sherlock was not taking kindly to being alone now, it seemed. Maybe he resented Mary. _Or maybe he was just a moron. _Regardless...

Something had to be done, and soon, before the consulting detective drugged himself silly one too many times and... well, that wasn't a pleasant thought. But he almost deserved it, with what he'd done. What he'd put John through. It had been hell.

_Absolute hell._

And now he was having a taste of his own medicine, and John hoped it was bitter and horrible, because he wanted him to know what it had been like. He wanted him to be sorry.

_He probably wasn't._

* * *

"Hello?" John wrapped on the door only once before it was opened, to his surprise, by the elder Holmes instead of a butler.

_He must be concerned._

But of course Mycroft's expression showed no sign of it, though he seemed unusually rigid, and kept sighing morosely.

"Mycroft?" He raised an eyebrow. "Any change?"

"I'm afraid not. He's refusing to drink anything now, as well. I can't stand for this much longer—I'm deeply regretful that I even let it go on this long… But you know how stubborn he can be."

John nodded, sighing deeply. "Tell me about it. We might have to put him on an IV, if he's going to go in that direction."

"_If _you can find any good veins left, that is. He's bent on destruction now, it appears. And that has always been something he's unnaturally good at."

The consulting detective's room was situated on the far side of the house, by a large window. The sunlight that filtered in that way was the only light in the room, casting the floor in a jumbled, shadowy minefield of broken china, rumpled shirts, and haphazard cushions. For a split-second or so John wondered how Mycroft could let it get like that—but the loud, irritated greeting they received as soon as the door was opened made everything quite clear.

"_FUCK OFF, MYCROFT!_ Leave me alone!" Sherlock tried to roll over on the bed, but gave up part way through, opting instead to growl crossly.

"Sherlock. You have a visitor."

"_No._"

Mycroft simply shrugged his shoulders and gave John a look that said 'go ahead.'

It took him a few moments to collect himself, but finally he stepped inside, avoiding the debris on the floor as best he could, and approached the bed.

The consulting detective had been through many dangerous cases.

Hell, he'd even been pronounced dead after jumping off a building.

But John had never seen him quite like this.

Somehow he looked more dead now than he had back then. His pale arms were covered in needle marks and the odd scratch or two—or four—and he stared up at the dim ceiling through half-lidded eyes, lying there like a dejected corpse.

Sherlock groaned and tried to turn his back on him again, shutting his eyes. "Go away. I don't want to see you."

"Yes you do, moron. Look at you. You're _moping._"

"Stop looking at me. You make me feel sick."

"_You're_making _yourself_ sick. Come on, sit up. I'm a doctor, and I'm making a bloody house call. So do as I say, so I can help you."

Sherlock opened his deeply shadowed eyes and glared up at him. "_I didn't ask for any help._"

For a few seconds John just held his gaze, glaring back at him. "You're a mess, Sherlock. I'm not waiting for you to ask anymore. Now sit up."

He hesitated, and John took the opportunity to slip an arm around his shoulders and help him up to a sitting position. The detective felt thin and tenuous under his touch, and John shuddered inwardly.

It had been nearly a year since he'd spoken to him much. Mary had taken most of his time, and it had been much easier to deal with her. She had never deceived him the way his best friend had.

He'd never had to mourn for her.

There was an untouched glass of water on the nightstand, and John held it out to him, trying to get Sherlock's unwilling fingers to wrap around it.

"I don't feel like it…"

"You'll die of dehydration if you don't. Believe me, it's not a fun way to go. Come on."

Sherlock stared at it quietly, and then very, very slowly accepted the glass, though he tried to resist when John moved to help him take a sip.

_Still very much the independent spirit._

_And still very much the stubborn git. _


	2. Stop it

"If nothing can be done, leave him." Mycroft spoke matter-of-factly. "I'll have him picked up in the morning."

"Picked up?"

"Yes. A hospital, first, will probably be in order. Then a facility."

"You mean rehab."

"Precisely. He's out of control. You saw how bad it was, so I won't bother going into detail. I can't stand for it any longer."

John cast a glance at Sherlock's door, which was still slightly ajar, just enough for him to glimpse the back of that curly head and a bit of his hunched shoulders.

_Pity._

_It was worse than he'd expected._

John had wanted him to feel guilty—to be sorry—but he hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted him to ruin himself. And over what?

_Being alone again?_

He paused for a second. Maybe that wasn't such an outrageous reason after all. Now it was _John_ who was feeling guilty.

But he really shouldn't—after all that... And it was only natural for a man to move on a bit after he's found the right woman. _Wasn't it?_

Sherlock should have been fine. This was over the top. Too much.

_The detective had always been too much. _

_He couldn't even handle himself sometimes. _

_But still... somebody had to try._

"I'm going to go check on him again. I'll tell you if there's anything more I can do in a little bit, when I come back."

Mycroft nodded, and turned to go. "I do appreciate this, by the way. You know how I worry."

* * *

"Sherlock?" The door squeaked on its hinges slightly as he pushed it open, but the consulting detective didn't move, lying with his back to him. "Hey... are you still awake?"

There was still no answer, so John moved over to the bed, side-stepping a broken cup on the way there. Sherlock's eyes were open, staring intently at the opposite wall, but he was perfectly still.

_Like a statue._

_Or a corpse._

"Sherlock, I know you're awake. I need to check your vitals. Come on."

"_Don't bother._"

"What?" John frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "You need help."

He still hadn't moved an inch, or hardly blinked, that John could tell. "I'm not your responsibility. Leave me alone."

"I'm a doctor. Making a fucking house call. This is what I _do._ Now come on and sit up again so I can work, or I'm just going to leave you here at Mycroft's mercy. That's not what you want, is it?"

"You've already done that, for a whole year." Sherlock finally rolled over and looked up at him morosely. "It's so _boring..._"

"Then find something else to do, something that won't destroy your body like this. If you were _anywhere_ close to this, you could have told us... you could have come to me, talked about it..." He gingerly helped the detective sit up again, more because he wanted to be supportive than because Sherlock actually needed it, and began checking vitals.

The whole time the doctor was checking his heartbeat Sherlock was giving him a plaintive look, staring him right in the eyes, and after a while John couldn't help but look away.

"John..."

"_What._"

"You don't have to do this. You don't have to... force yourself to be here. I can probably talk Mycroft out of sending me back to rehab, and you won't have to bother with making house calls again because I don't need them. I'm not asking for that. You can go back home to Mary. I won't mind."

John heaved a sigh. "I can't just leave you alone like this. You have a problem—the drugs have to stop. Okay? You're not getting out of rehab, if you can't stop on your own. And I'm not forcing myself. Yeah, I'm upset about what you did, but you're still my friend."

"I didn't really die, but you still mourned as if I had. Your grief deserves legitimacy, at the very least... Now it's not so pointless."

John's reserve cracked a little, and he stopped in the middle of feeling for Sherlock's pulse and leaned his forehead against the detective's shoulder wearily. "...Shut up. Just _shut up._ Stop it. _Stop this..._"

"But it helps..."

John lowered his head and gave up trying to keep his shoulders from shaking.

_Fuck the world._

_Damn it all to hell._

Sherlock didn't push him away, but hesitantly rested an arm across John's back in an awkward, exhausted attempt at comfort, staying quiet.

"Just stop it... _please..._"


	3. For a little while

_You are a genius. _

_An incredible actor. _

_You fooled everyone, didn't you?_

_They think you've never known what it's like._

_They think you can't feel pain._

_Now you just have to fool yourself, as well. _

_Shouldn't be that hard, but it is._

_All the control in the world and it's still spinning._

_The only things that help are the things that tear you apart._

_But at least you can still act. And you'll do it well._

_Take it like a champ and spit it back in their faces—_

_But just make sure you don't mix too many painkillers and sleeping pills._

_The game's not quite over yet._

* * *

Sherlock turned his head on the pillow to gaze at the deepening sunset beyond the windowpane. The world outside was bare and quiet, and even the sunset's hues seemed to be stained grey somehow.

John had left several hours ago.

Gone home to Mary.

_Again. _

It really shouldn't be this hard. He'd survived so long before John... He should be able to now...

_But for some reason... _

He put a hand on his collarbone and slowly dragged his nails down across his chest, not hard, but enough to distract slightly from that unexplainable ache. He wasn't even sad, exactly, that he could discern—it just... hurt.

Quite a bit.

_Strange... _

He let out a soft sigh and allowed his eyes to wander over to the bedside table. Mycroft would have had all his stash confiscated while he was out cold, no doubt. But he might not have checked under the mattress... yet...

With considerable effort Sherlock rolled over and heaved himself up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and attempting to stand.

His first step brought him crashing down to the floor, narrowly missing a broken teacup to the face, but not so lucky in avoiding a lone shoe.

He caught the groan in his throat and held it in, hoping to god that Mycroft hadn't heard.

The last thing he needed right now was his brother's nagging.

After lying there for several moments in silence he figured Mycroft was probably too far away, and the coast was most likely clear.

He took another few seconds to gather his energy and began crawling back up to his feet, hoisting himself up by the bed frame.

_This was humiliating. _

_Shameful._

But it would all be alright soon.

_For a little while. _

For a little while, he wouldn't care anymore.

He could forget that he ever gave a damn.

He paused for breath, and then pushed his shoulder against the mattress, shoving it aside just enough so he could reach underneath it. When the tips of his fingers brushed the plastic bag beneath, a slow smile spread across his lips.

_Not a happy one. _

_Not really. _

_More relieved. _

_For a little while, it would be okay. _

* * *

"Sherlock? I trust you're still alive?" Mycroft nudged the door open with the tips of his fingers and glanced into the room.

The entire bedroom was awash in shadow, tinged slightly red from the sinking sun. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, wrapped up cosily in his blanket and gazing out the window rather dreamily, with a fixed smile on his face.

_A comfortable one. _

_But a tired one. _

Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock glanced about at him, but he soon turned back to the glass, as if there was something far more picturesque to be seen there.

"Listen to the birds, Mycroft..." He smiled softly, pulling the blanket more securely about himself.

"What birds, Sherlock?"


	4. No hard feelings

"_No._"

"Sherlock, this is non-negotiable." Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. "I _will_ have you see a professional. If I have to use force, _so be it._"

"**_No._**"

"Do you hear what I'm saying? Non-negotiable. This is not up for discussion, and I expect you to behave yourself, for once."

"You're not my mother." Sherlock rolled over and buried his face in the sheets with an irritated groan. "_Leave me alone._"

"Perhaps I'm not, but I'm sure she would say the same thing, if we told her. Two o'clock pm today, little brother. I suggest you be ready."

Sherlock groaned again and pulled the duvet over his head. "_I'll never be ready..._"

* * *

_This would be simple. _

_Go in, explain the situation, and never have to do it again. _

_Seeing a 'professional'... **Really. **_

_Mycroft was out of his mind. _

Sherlock kept his back as straight as he could, and walked with as much poise as he could manage with a jackhammer of a headache drilling behind his eyes.

_Mustn't even look at Mycroft. _

_Mustn't give him the satisfaction. _

His brother had insisted on walking with him all the way up to the door, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn't even get that far if he weren't escorted personally.

_Forced._

Mycroft stopped at the doorstep and waited patiently while Sherlock took a moment, working out just what he would say in his head before he drew in a quiet breath and pushed the door open.

The interior of the office was suspiciously nice, well furnished and clean.

_Typical. _

_And just annoying._

_He **didn't **need to be here. _

_But it would be alright soon. He could leave then. _

The therapist stood as he entered. He was a small man, prim and neat, and in the early stages of male pattern baldness.

_Three children, one cat, married for ten years to an unfaithful wife, and... also an amateur painter. _

_Interesting. _

**_Not. _**

With sudden flair, Sherlock stepped forward and extended a hand toward him. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure we're both well aware that my brother has initiated this visit, without consulting me, and I'd like to make it perfectly clear that it is _beyond_ unnecessary. I am independent and absolutely content in my own way, and I do not require any of your _'assistance.'_" He flashed his widest, most charming smile. "So you see, there's really no point in continuing with this any further, and I'd appreciate it if you would validate my point with my brother, who seems completely unable to fully grasp the truth."

The therapist just stood there looking at him for several maddening seconds before leaning forward and taking his outstretched hand, fixing him with a calmly inquisitive gaze. "Sherlock Holmes, are you quite aware that your smile doesn't reach your eyes?"

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback. "I... well... _At least_ I'm aware that your wife is cheating on you_._"

"_I thought so..._" He bent over his notepad for a few seconds, and Sherlock was just starting to hope that had done the trick, when he straightened up again. "Milo Helmsford. I do hope you'll forgive me if I don't believe a word of your little speech. No hard feelings? Good."

* * *

"Wait, so… you're telling me you actually had him see a _therapist._ _A real one._ An _actual visit_, in an _office._ And _he actually agreed to this?_" John couldn't conceal the look of scepticism on his face, but Mycroft only shook his head.

"No, of course he didn't. But, I think you'll agree, it was necessary to do _something._"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Considering how close you were to him, I want you to be present while I consult with Mr. Helmsford on what's to be done about my brother. Perhaps then you can assist us if he becomes… more _difficult._ At times you are the only person he will speak to."

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not looking up from Mycroft's desk. "Isn't there such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality...?"

"In most cases, yes. But in this particular case our _patient_ is in danger of doing himself harm, and that justifies our _doctor_ to speak up."

"Okay, but I..."

John was interrupted by a knock at the door, and presently a small, balding man was ushered in. He nodded politely to both of them and shook hands, introducing himself as doctor Milo Helmsford.

John's first impression was that he was fairly professional—if a little odd.

He sat back in his chair and regarded Mr. Helmsford curiously, trying to fathom what a meeting between him and the great Sherlock Holmes might have been like.

He would have put most of his money on _'pretty damn bad.' _

Sherlock had never taken very kindly to being analysed.

For the most part, John's only role in the conversation was as the silent observer, attempting to get over his disbelief at the absurdity of it all and to really get himself to connect the things Helmsford was saying to the Sherlock Holmes he knew.

_Or thought he knew._

"I believe Sherlock is mentally and emotionally unable to cry." Helmsford was speaking in a hushed, serious tone, leaning toward Mycroft, who was listening calmly. "He won't let himself, and even if he tried I'm not sure he'd find it very easy. He's very bottled up, it seems to me."

John wasn't certain if the sound that almost made it out of his throat was a scoff or a sympathetic outburst.

At the moment, both were present in his mind.

It made sense. But it still seemed so _incredibly _unlikely for the detective, so uncharacteristic of him—such a faraway problem...

Both Helmsford and Mycroft turned to look at him, and he shrugged it off, unsure what to say.

The therapist went on; "It's possible that he is using the drugs as an alternative way of coping, since he can't find relief any other way. I would suggest trying to find better ways of doing that. _But first, rehab might not be a bad idea._"


	5. Dead man walking

_They say the first day is always the worst. _

_That was true, but so was the next day._

_And the next. _

_And every single one after that. _

They stole your personal effects away and gave you standard new ones; they gave you new clothes, and they gave you a new schedule. They stole your independence, and your dignity.

All because you'd lost control.

_As if they could do it for you. _

_Fix you. _

_Clean you up. _

**_Honestly. _**

In short: rehab sucked more than sergeant Donovan, which was really saying something.

Of course Mycroft had sent him to a live-in facility. He wouldn't want to have to deal with having his defective little brother hanging around his place any longer; that would look bad. Sherlock had expected that, and he understood.

Clever of Mycroft, really. Out of sight, out of mind.

Anyone else would have done the same.

He found there was one particular 'inmate' whom he despised the most—though that was all relative, considering that he hated every single thing about the whole facility with a fiery passion, including everyone in it.

She, in particular, had shredded every last nerve he had with her incessant flirting, which was not only irritating but also pointless, as she was clearly already married.

Besides, he found her manner—or lack thereof—and her outdated racial prejudices to be wholeheartedly repulsive. If he could have selected her and pressed delete, he would have.

_Waste of space. _

_Waste of time. _

The first time they'd met he'd been quite sure he'd made his intentions perfectly clear, but she didn't seem phased, somehow.

He'd ignored her after his initial sweep of the room for information, having done the calculations and deciding that she wasn't worth his time. But just a few moments later his sulking had been interrupted by an irritatingly seductive voice—a tone that was certainly not made any better by years of heavy smoking.

"Hey, hot stuff. I couldn't help but notice you were looking a little lonely over here all by yourself."

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up, rolling his eyes. "Oh _please..._ If it's a choice between my own company or yours, I think I'd rather be assigned to an isolation cell, stat."

She only chuckled, and settled herself into a chair next to him. "Well, you're a bit nasty, aren't you? I don't blame you; the withdrawal's starting to get to me too." He could practically hear the smile in her voice. "Nancy, by the way. And what do they call you?"

He finally turned to look at her with a cold, hard glare. "_You know who I am._ Don't pretend you didn't follow the whole story in the papers like it was some sort of soap opera. You probably even thought I was guilty, didn't you? Typical sheep... You'll believe what they tell you, even up to that final article—_'Suicide of Fake Genius,' _wasn't it? Horrible reporting..." He shook his head. "And now you want to try associating with 'celebrities.' You think that will make you look good, or perhaps it'll make your husband jealous. Honestly, though, I think he's given up hope a long time ago, and justifiably so. I pity him."

She wasn't smiling anymore.

_He'd won…_

Nancy sat back, crossing her legs and brushing a lock of blond hair out of her face. An unnecessary motion: she was unsettled, nervous perhaps, and compensating for her current lack of a good response.

_Boring. _

"Well, you… can't blame me for trying. You're certainly every bit as good as they say you are."

Sherlock scoffed under his breath. "_Of course I am_. I didn't come back from the dead for nothing."

"Did you really?" Nancy was leaning forward now, looking at him. "Because I don't believe you, you know. You look just as dead now as you did in those photos in the paper. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a walking dead man."

"Is that supposed to be some sort of threat? Because if it is—"

"No, no. Just an observation." Nancy got to her feet, pausing behind his chair for a moment. "But, if you ever decide you're ready to be resuscitated, I'm sure you can figure out where to find me."

He just sat there after she'd left, his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side.

In part, he had a strong urge to vomit. But in another part, though he still felt naught but annoyance toward her, his interest was vaguely piqued.

_But not in a good way._

* * *

_A knock on his door._

_Then another one._

_It wasn't the right time for a check-up, so who could be…_

Sherlock finally pushed himself up off the bed and scowled at the door. "WHAT."

It squeaked open slowly on its hinges.

"Sherlock? I, um, just thought I'd come by, since it's my lunch break and all. See how you were doing."

Sherlock blinked, his scowl replaced by a slightly surprised stare. "John…? I… how did you…? Oh. Of course. My brother sent you, didn't he? You're a doctor, you're familiar with me, nobody's going to think of him if they see you coming in here, so—"

"No." John spoke slowly, stepping over to the bed and awkwardly taking a seat on the edge of it. "Actually, my friend is in rehab, and I genuinely wanted to see how he was doing."

"Your friend is—"

"You. Just to clear up any confusion, you know. If there was. So… uh… things going okay in here, then?"

Sherlock gave him a deadpan look. "Can't you at least figure that out for yourself?"

"Okay… not so good, I take it."

"_Worse._"

John pursed his lips and looked at the floor uncomfortably, and Sherlock could tell he was trying hard not to tell him off.

_But why was he resisting?_

_He'd never had a problem with that before._

_Odd…_

"Er… get many visitors in here?"

"You're the first, _obviously._ It's painfully dull in this prison, and I'm starting to feel sick."

"Yeah." John nodded. "That'll be the withdrawal. It's only going to get worse, I'm afraid. Sorry. _Kind of your fault._"

"Oh please… I don't need to hear that from _you,_ too…"

"Well, it's the truth. Alright? Maybe if you weren't so repressed, or something."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "_What was that?_ Are we playing quack therapist now, too? Because I believe Dr. Helmsford has already taken that position."

"No, just trying to state the obvious." John shook his head ruefully and got to his feet, starting for the door. "Look, I can tell you're in a bad mood, so…"

"_I'm always in a bad mood._"

"Yeah, well…" John was almost to the door when he paused, and glanced over his shoulder at the detective. "Oh, um, but… by the way… Happy birthday, Sherlock."

For several moments Sherlock's only response was a blank stare.

"…Oh. Hm. …right…"

"You… didn't know, did you?"

"Well, I have rather more pressing matters to think about than simply being another year closer to death. It's not happy; why do people say that? Especially not here. Quite the opposite, actually. _You_ try spending more than five minutes in here. I guarantee you, it's not anywhere close to _happy._"

"I'm… sorry. …I'll come back on my next break. How about that? Hmm? Maybe I can even bring a game or something. Clue, even. I'll stay a while."

"Don't bother. You'll miss all of Mary's morning sickness. What fun that'll be…"


	6. Preaching to sinners

_It didn't take Sherlock long to assess the situation. _

His brain was, after all, scratching itself raw from the sheer, crippling boredom he was facing, and had switched into hyper drive, trying to notice every little thing that might be just the slightest bit interesting.

He was ignoring Nancy, yes, but that didn't mean he didn't notice things.

_Aversion to touch on her left arm, but not the right. _

_Wearing a long sleeve sweater, when yesterday she'd been more than keen to show off as much skin as she could._

_Occasionally scratching the arm in question. _

_Withdrawal symptoms obviously more advanced, and yet in some ways more in check._

_Interesting. _

"Did you figure they wouldn't check your arms?" Sherlock didn't look up at her, instead waiting patiently for her answer, knowing it might not come.

"Oh, you're talking to me now?"

Sherlock said nothing, letting the question hang there between them.

Nancy shifted in her seat. "Well... They haven't so far. Should I even ask how the hell you knew—?"

"Don't bother. The point is, I _did_ notice. I don't think you've ever done it before, so it was probably a last resort to deal with the withdrawal. It's simple, really... When the body feels pain it releases endorphins to soothe and calm itself, which, to somebody who's suffering from withdrawal, is probably a welcome relief. So you manufactured that pain. Let me guess—broken glass? Thumb tack?"

"...Safety pin. You really shouldn't be sticking your nose in other people's business, you know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as she stood up. "_Really?_ I had _no_ idea. Obviously I should have taken _your _example and done exactly as you did, which obviously wasn't nosey in the _slightest._ Go on, I'm sure there are some other sinners you need to go preach to. I'll be right here."

Nancy frowned at him, and seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to say something else—but finally she turned and stalked out of the room.

Sherlock's self-satisfied smile slowly slipped off his lips, and he settled back into the chair with his hands linked over his chest, staring up at the ceiling in silence.

_Interesting... _

* * *

"And just how many times _have_ you thrown up this morning?" John had his arms crossed in an annoyingly doctorly sort of way.

_All business. _

"_Does it matter?_" Sherlock snapped, twisting about to look at him and instantly regretting it as another firework exploded inside his skull.

"Headache's getting worse, then?" John had crossed the room and laid a hand on his forehead, pursing his lips. "It's all part of withdrawal. This wouldn't be happening if you weren't addicted in the first place."

"_I WAS BORED!_"

"Jesus—I know, I know. They said mood swings might be one of your symptoms... Suppose it's going to be one _hell_ of a roller-coaster ride, knowing you."

Sherlock scowled and reached up, taking a handful of John's collar and staring him straight in the eyes, his words hissing out through clenched teeth. "_I. __**Need.**__ It._ **_Get me some._**"

"Sherlock, _no._ You're in rehab. _Rehabilitation._ That's what that means—_quitting._ I know it's hard, and the withdrawal hurts, but you're doing it. That's why you're here."

"I DON'T _WANT_ TO BE HERE!"

John took a deep breath, looking down at him. "I know. But you don't really have a choice. Those drugs were killing you."

"NO THEY WEREN'T! _YOU_ WERE KILLING ME!"

The doctor paused, a slight frown creasing his brow. _Sherlock was nearly delirious. He'd say anything. That must be it._

_Delirium. _

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. Life happens, okay? And I thought you were dead, and that was your fault, too. You don't think that killed me? _Think again._ But now…" He carefully detached his shirt from Sherlock's grip, trying to be gentle as he noted the slight tremor in the detective's hand. "Now I have a wife. That doesn't mean I don't care about you anymore, but you have to come to terms with it. What that means. Okay?"

Sherlock was still scowling, but John thought he might have imagined his lower lip tremble just a little… But then he set his jaw and turned away from him.

"_Leave me alone._"

John stared at his friend's hunched shoulders for a minute, biting his lip, but the detective didn't turn around.

"…Okay. Alright. If that's what you want, I'll go. But I'll be back. There's no way I'm leaving you alone in here completely. So… see you later, then."

He waited a few more moments for a response, but it didn't come.

John sighed quietly.

_Roller-coaster ride indeed…_


	7. Possibly broken

Over the next few days John found himself to be fairly busy, what with work and all, but sometimes on his lunch breaks he made it a point to see if he could go visit Sherlock in rehab.

_It wasn't always a pleasant experience. _

The consulting detective was as snarky and terse as he'd always been—sometimes even more so. But John tried to remind himself that it was just a side effect of everything he was going through, and _tried_ to be diplomatic about it.

But the last few times he'd visited... something was just the slightest bit couldn't exactly put his finger on what that something might be, but even _he_ could tell there was a subtle change in Sherlock. The staff seemed to think it was just the drugs wearing off, and he decided to at least try to believe that too.

_What else could he do? _

_Sherlock certainly wasn't going to tell him._

_But still…_

Sherlock had… well, quieted down a bit, for one. The shouting had stopped, and for that John was grateful—and yet, it was odd. The complaining, too, seemed to have taken a back seat in the consulting detective's daily agenda, but he had now focused in on the one thing he wanted more than anything.

Sherlock wanted out. No two ways about it. Every time John came to see him he made that one point quite clear.

As clear as the shadows beneath his eyes, or the jut of his cheekbones.

Rehab really didn't seem to be agreeing with Sherlock Holmes… but at the same time, the drugs would have killed him. He needed to quit. And he didn't seem to be able to do that on his own.

So John would just have to try and convince him to stick it out, and somehow make it a little easier for his friend.

_However the hell he was supposed to do that._

On Sunday afternoon, after getting the green light from Mary, John unchained his bicycle and headed out for yet another visit to the rehab center prisoner patient. The sky was merciful, and had finally stopped raining, but the breeze that had picked up kept threatening to choke him on bugs at every turn.

_Mouth closed, jaw set._

That was the way he found him.

Sherlock was stretched out on his bed, hands clasped over his chest and his eyes focused on nothing in particular.

_Thinking._

"Sherlock?" John shed his coat and hung it over the back of the one chair in the room, now uncomfortably warm in his choice of jumper.

The detective hardly looked up. "Mm?"

"Doing alright?"

"If you distracted them for at least two minutes, I'm sure I could slip out unnoticed…"

"Sherlock, no. We've talked about this. But I'll take that as an 'I'm not doing so well, thanks for asking,' shall I?"

Sherlock only groaned in response, and started to roll over and turn his back on the room.

"Hang on—" John frowned, taking a step closer. "Did you fall or something?"

"Leave me alone." Sherlock scowled darkly and tried to draw his arm back as John attempted to get a better look at his wrist.

"It's bruised. Nasty one, too."

"**_I know that._** _Leave me alone._"

John could only purse his lips and sigh under his breath. "Okay… well, did you at least get somebody to look at it? Bruise that much, you might have broken something. Better safe than sorry."

"_No!_ That's… I would know if I had. Besides, you're a doctor, and you just looked at it. Good enough."

"No… not really. I hardly even got a good look, because you wouldn't even let me. Why don't you let me take another look? Save you the hassle of talking to some other idiot."

Sherlock hesitated, and after a moment John just had to take that as a yes.

Better safe than sorry.

As he pulled up the cuff a bit the detective masked a flinch, which didn't go entirely unnoticed.

"Sorry… Well, I can't really be sure it isn't broken without an x-ray, but it does seem a little…" John's eyes narrowed. "Wait. What the…"

Sherlock followed his gaze up his own wrist to the shadow of a second bruise peeking out from higher up under his sleeve.

"Sherlock, how many of these have you got? And how—"

"None of your business. You're not my doctor anymore."


	8. Not worth it

Although John went on a little detective expedition of his own and questioned some of the staff about the mysterious bruises, none of them could give a satisfactory answer. None of them knew what had happened to Sherlock's wrist, or his forearm, or even his upper arm...

John could only wish he had at least a little bit of Sherlock's cunning when it came to mysteries-because that's exactly what this was.

'The case of the mysterious bruises.'

_No..._

'The case of the possibly fractured wrist.'

_Still stupid sounding... how about..._

'The case of 'what the hell happened, Sherlock?''

'In which the idiot somehow managed to get all banged up and now refuses to even tell his best friend, who is a DOCTOR, what happened to him. _Typical dick._'

John sighed. This was just worry. Pent up worry and unease and stress from work and worrying about the baby... It was all a little overwhelming.

Regardless of the fact that the cause went unidentified, the bruises were being treated. Much against Sherlock's will, they had taken him to the clinic in order to have his arm x-rayed, and the results would be ready pretty damn soon.

John had asked the nurse to give him a ring if anything was actually damaged. Say, for instance, a fracture.

And now he waited.

He'd stopped for coffee on his ten minute break, and was keeping his mobile close by, as he'd been doing all day. No word yet, which was good. No news was good news.

Just as he was reaching for a spoon he felt a buzz in his pocket, and stopped cold.

_This was it._

_It had to be broken._

_God, Sherlock..._

He set his cup down and slipped his mobile from his pocket, frowning at the caller ID. A long breath escaped his lips as he accepted the call. "_God,_ Mary, you scared me..."

Once he'd finally hung up he went back to his coffee, feeling a little more reassured. If it wasn't broken, then there would be no cast, no re-breaking and setting, no splint, less pain... All around good news.

A half smile had begun to cross his lips as he raised his coffee cup and took a long sip, leaning against the counter, listening to the hum of the staff fridge and the buzzing of the telephone.

Wait.

_Telephone-_

He nearly spit out his coffee, choking a little as he took up his mobile again and answered it.

"Hi, this is Alexandra, with the Dawn rehabilitation clinic. You asked me to call you if it was bad?"

* * *

"Jesus, Sherlock..."

"It's _only_ a fracture! Quit making such a huge deal about it. Bones heal. You, of all people, ought to know that."

John took a second to straighten out his thoughts. "Listen to me. You are staying in rehab. Your wrist is fucking _broken_ and bruised up like... I don't know what. And you won't even give me a hint. _What happened?_ Is somebody hurting you?"

Momentary surprise showed in the detective's arched brows, and then a funny look came over his face. "...yes."

"What? _Who?!_ Is it a staff member? That's illegal-"

"I know. I ought to be moved, shouldn't I? This place isn't a suitable place for me to stay, after all..."

"_Wait..._" John watched him carefully, trying to sort out his expression. "That's _exactly_ what you wanted. You're aren't trying to play me, are you?"

"Well, somebody _is_ hurting me. I would think that would be a fairly good reason."

"_Sherlock._" Again with the arched brows. "Are you... _Did you do that to yourself?_ Just so you could try to get out?"

"_Of course not!_ You think I'm_ stupid?!_" The storm clouds had descended over the detective's expression now. "That sort of ruse is _obviously_ not worth a fractured wrist, and you know that!"

John hesitated, contemplating stepping back a little from the seething anger that was now surrounding Sherlock like a heavy, noxious toxin. In the end, though, he stood his ground. It wasn't worth a fractured wrist.

It wasn't.

_And yet..._


	9. A good thing, too

It was not worth a fractured wrist.

_It wasn't._

The phrase repeated itself in Sherlock's mind hollowly as he sat on the bed, staring down at the bruise's edge peering back at him from beneath the cast.

It was irritating and bulky, and just generally got in the way.

_Perhaps he should have thought of that first._

John's accusations that Sherlock had done this to himself, just in order to get out, honestly stung.

_It'd had nothing to do with getting out._

He shut his eyes and focussed on the dull ache, letting it wash over him like a painful caress. It took his focus in its clutches and held it, so that, for the moment, he no longer had to listen to the pleading of his body for the drugs he no longer had access to.

It calmed him, because he knew for a fact that they could not hurt him more than he could himself.

He was in perfect control.

It hurt, but that was a good thing.

_Control was _supposed_ to hurt._

Without a little punishment, how could you keep your transport in line? You'd forget that this wasn't supposed to be easy, and then you'd slack off.

But deep inside him he knew that he was incapable of 'slacking off.' His mind would not have let him. He would be controlled until the day he died.

And that was a good thing, too.

_The bone had made a sound as it broke._

He remembered that clearly, if nothing else.

A sudden _crack,_ and then molten hot pain had poured down his arm like magma, reaching his fingertips and sending stabbing chills back up them.

It was a wonder no one heard him, despite how careful he'd been.

Honestly, he hadn't set out to end up broken. It was just the bruises to begin with. The action of creating them was like a drug in itself, and served to distract from and relieve somewhat the pains and discomfort of withdrawals.

But like any other drug, you begin to crave more. And when you crave more pain, you hit harder, and when that happens...

Things break.

The same way his patience had broken, first. That last line between suffering in silence in this pitiful, boring institution, and taking out his frustrations on the corners of walls and the edges of bookshelves.

It wasn't self-harm, really.

Sherlock had gone over that definition, and come to his own conclusion that there was a difference. He was merely frustrated, trapped here, angry, separated from his addiction and suffering for it.

That wasn't a textbook reason, he decided, so it was different.

Meaning he didn't need to be ashamed of what he'd done.

Master of himself in every way.

And yet... He was hesitant to come out and say the truth, to anyone, let alone to John.

Yesterday, when John had come to see him, he had thought about it.

Thought about answering his questions truthfully, of telling him just where every bruise, break, and mark had come from-but then he'd seen that look in John's eye at the thought that all these might be self-inflicted... And he didn't want to tell him anymore.

At first John had just looked surprised at the realisation of the possibility, but then, as it set in, that had been mixed with worry, confusion, fear, pity, and, Sherlock guessed, a little disgust.

None of which Sherlock wanted to have heaped onto his shoulders.

The thought of being truly pitied, of having the wrong kind of attention-the kind that tried to focus in on and dissect the emotions he was always trying to keep in check, locked away in a box-was repulsive.

He would rather have the right kind-the kind that focussed on how clever he was, and stood only to reassure him and allowed his feelings to be ignored.

That felt nice.

_Freeing._

_Warm._

_Confidence-building._

Regardless, Sherlock knew that he was stronger than other people. He would always win, because he required less than they did-less sleep, less food, less love...

_And that was a good thing, too._


End file.
